


Dauphinoise

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Celebrity Come Dine With Me, F/M, Fluff, Nonsense, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Nicola and Malcolm get roped into doing Celebrity Couples Come Dine with Me for charity. Idiots.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	Dauphinoise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cointeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cointeach/gifts).



‘Nicola, Malcolm, do you want to come over here and film your menu link, please?’ The woman talking to them (at them) can’t be more than thirty, bottle blonde with dark roots that are supposedly trendy these days, in a smart blue shirt and the tightest trousers Nicola has seen since… well, that she’s ever seen, probably. How on Earth she’s become an executive producer for Channel 4 is baffling – though perhaps Celebrity Couples Come Dine with Me isn’t the highest rung on the career ladder. But it’s for charity, so – she should be more charitable. She’s trying her best, poor girl. ‘Just coming, Emily!’ she calls back, giving Malcolm a small grin around the rim of her mug as she finishes up her (admittedly quite horrible) coffee.

‘So – Malc –‘ Emily begins, and Nic tries not to wince in anticipation. ‘Malcolm’ is all he says back, quiet but firm, the voice she knows he uses when he really _wants_ to bollock someone but has decided it’s probably not in his best interest. ‘Malcolm, right, sorry –‘ Emily corrects herself, clearly not understanding why Nicola has been able to call him everything from ‘Malc’ to ‘darling’ to ‘you fucking idiot’ all morning, and she’s been relegated to barely first name terms. She really is daft, bless her. ‘Can you do the starter and dessert for me, and Nic, you do the main? Just read it out and have a bit of banter about the choices, that’s all.’ She makes it sound so bloody easy. They’ve been watching the other couples do this all morning, TV presenters and Youtubers and sportspeople who _know_ how to be engaging and interesting and funny, not – them. Well, her, really. Malcolm knows damn well how to be funny and lighthearted and interesting, just not in a manner that’s acceptable for a pre-watershed family programme for children’s charities. But they can give it a go, at least. She’s always been a trier. He’s quiet, next to her, but doesn’t seem to have an issue with the request, so they set up the cameras and start rolling. She doesn’t think to look down at what she has to say until the moment is upon her, too distracted by responding to Malcolm’s witty comment about prawn cocktail, and as soon as she looks over the printed menu for tonight she feels her throat close up a little. Oh _fuck_. His hand goes to her knee, underneath the range of the camera, a gentle squeeze through well-worn jeans that should be comforting but at this stage feels more like a much too late warning. He must have bloody known – he’ll have already read the whole bloody thing and be trying to work out what puns he can make about panna cotta.

‘Charlotte’s main course is – ‘ she begins, a plummy, round sort of accent that she saves solely for telly and answering unknown numbers. By all rights _he_ should be the nervous one, she’s done much more media than him since they both left politics – it had started out with a guest appearance on Women’s Hour, and snowballed into being offered virtually every British charity/topical comedy/minor celebrity gig going. She must _be_ funny, she just doesn’t see it herself. ‘-roasted chicken with red wine gravy, spring vegetables, and _dolphin_ -ouise potatoes’ she continues, stumbling over it before she’s consciously aware that she’s still talking, too caught up in thinking about whether she’s technically more of a telly person than a former politician now. Emily looks moderately horrified, and the camera woman is trying hard not to laugh, biting down on a rose-stained bottom lip. She must ask her where she got that lipstick from. Malcolm inhales a little snort of laughter, turning to her before they can call cut. ‘Sorry?’ he asks, all innocent twinkly eyes and a half-twitch of laughter at the corners of his mouth. ‘ _Dolphin_ -ouise potatoes’ she repeats, though she’s clearly really trying to get it right, over-pronouncing each syllable in a way that only makes her mistake more obvious. ‘Aye? Never heard of them’ he claims, so believable and sincere that she falls right into it. Even Emily is smiling now, catching on thirty seconds after everyone else that this will probably make quite good telly. So long as they don’t start swearing at each other. ‘Yes you have! You know, they’re those posh potatoes with the cream, like a potato lasagne, except it’s not tomato, it’s cream, and it’s not pasta, it’s potatoes.’ He looks down at his own copy of the menu for a moment, stifling the bright laugh that will ruin the pretence. ‘So, not like a lasagne at all, then?’ ‘Yes it is! Because it’s like, in the layers –‘ ‘Nic’la, not everything with layers is like a lasagne.’ ‘Well, no, not everything – not like, trifle, for instance, or haircuts – I’m just saying, the _dolphin-_ ouise potatoes, they remind me of a potato lasagne.’ He can’t hold it in for a moment longer, a bright belly laugh that she can’t help grinning along with – she’s known since the second she read the menu that she was going to pronounce it wrong, always has, probably always will. She just can’t wrap her tongue around it properly, but if it makes him laugh she’ll swallow the indignity of the whole thing. He tries in vain a few times to get her to say it properly, unsure if she’s playing up for the cameras, and laughs even harder as he realises she actually, physically can’t. They barely manage to make it through Malcolm reading out the dessert – ‘Charlotte’s Vanilla Panna Cotta with a _saucy_ surprise, ooh, matron’ – before collapsing into giggles again. Well, giggles from Nicola, Malcolm would never be so openly unrefined. He opts instead for the charming boyish smile that seems to proclaim, ‘yes, she’s my wife, yes, she’s an idiot’. She genuinely might wet herself if this keeps up. It’s the nerves, has to be, they’re never normally quite as hysterical as this, and she feels almost a little embarrassed as they cut the cameras and she dries her eyes with the edges of her fingers, trying not to smudge her new mascara. Grow up, Nicola. You’re nearly fifty, for God’s sake.

Thankfully they’re both a lot calmer by the time they arrive at Charlotte and Joes’s house for the evening meal, and the cameras feel much less daunting now they’re in a group of four other couples, mingling and charming like the old days. There’s still an edge of excessive energy between them, there’s just something in the air today, shifting from hysterical giggles this morning to handsy, playful interference as they both got ready, to a sort of knowing look that passes between them occasionally now, sat next to each other at this random couple’s posh round dining table. She can feel his eyes on her as Charlotte starts explaining how she met Joe after one of his football games, and he took her out to a swanky wine bar in town. Although her eyes are firmly trained on the other woman’s face, or rather a spot on the wall next to her that makes it look as though she’s giving direct eye contact, she can tell he’s definitely checking her out rather than listening. Still. She’d rather that than sitting there stony-faced, or picking arguments over nothing. Not that he would. Malcolm knows this is important to her, since it’s for charity, and he’s more than capable of being charming and engaging when he wants to be. Surely there are worse ways to spend a few evenings than snooping around other people’s houses, being fed and getting to see your wife all dolled up. Still, she’s surprised when he actively joins in the conversation, asking Joe about his footballing career as if he knows what he’s talking about, and paying respectful, flattering compliments to the other wives. Bastard. He’d do anything to have that winner’s plate on their dining room sideboard, and doesn’t she bloody know it. It’s only the first night, and he’s already got everyone eating out of his hand, enraptured by some story he’s telling about losing the Prime Minister in a newly opened suburban branch of Asda. Still – there’s no harm in charming the competition.

That being said, if there’s one issue on which she knows he won’t be able to hold his tongue, it’s his assessment of other people’s food. The starter is nice enough, and they both make the appropriate complimentary noises. She’s really not a massive fan of prawn cocktail but being around in politics when she was meant that she’s forced her way through a fair number of them at fundraising dinners and working lunches. There’s a brief pause for further self-congratulatory conversation before Charlotte brings out the main. The dreaded potatoes are lovely, soft and indulgently buttery, but the roast chicken is rather too pink to feel at all safe. Nobody says anything, and she prays Malcolm won’t. Charlotte’s tried her best – the immaculate, minimalist kitchen doesn’t paint then as a couple who do much actual cooking. One of the other guests (Harry? Harvey?) eventually politely points out that the chicken is rather close to still being alive, and Nicola looks around the table to see that everyone else has barely touched theirs. She’s eaten nearly all of it, carefully working her way around the most worrisome looking bits in the middle. Damn her innate politeness. Malcolm gazes at her plate and then at her with a look that seems to suggest she’s baffling him. Charlotte isn’t even offended or upset, which makes Nic feel like she’s probably risked a night of gastrointestinal hell for nothing, and her previous good-will towards her fellow contestants starts to curdle as her stomach does much the same. Dessert is nice, on account of involving no actual cooking, but the dairy doesn’t do much for her delicate constitution, and by the time they make it back to the cab, she feels ever so slightly unwell. Thankfully Malcolm picks up her slack, handing her a mint from his jacket pocket and a bottle of water he’s procured from somewhere before launching into his piece to camera about how Charlotte ‘probably struggles to accurately cook a Tesco ready meal’, and how Joe ‘has all the conversational potential of a brick wall.’ She’s feeling progressively worse, over-thinking on the potential for death by undercooked poultry, and ends up giving them an eight out of ten for ‘excellent hosting, and trying their best, even if some elements of the meal were a _little_ bit under-done.’ Malcolm gives them a four, of course, and then thankfully they’re home, and out of sight.

If there’s one thing Malcolm hasn’t yet learnt how to be tactful about, it’s hiding his true feelings when he thinks Nicola’s been an idiot. She wouldn’t really want him to start pretending otherwise, it’s a useful metric for determining when she’s being ridiculous, and yet the last thing she needs as she slumps onto the sofa with a soft ‘ugh’ is him standing over her looking like she’s grown three heads. ‘What?’ she accuses, grabbing one of the softer, saggier cushions and putting it over her head so she doesn’t have to see him or the lights that seem far too bright. It was either the chicken or the fourth sizeable glass of red wine, but somethings really not agreeing with her. ‘Do you think I’m going to die?’ she asks before he can respond, and there’s a soft exhale of breath as he sits down next to her. ‘C’mere’ is all he says for a moment, gently taking her cushion and settling her against his chest under his arm instead, careful not to jostle her too much. ‘You’ll be fine. It wasn’t _that_ raw, not really, trust me – I’ve eaten far worse off Jamie. Why you had to enjoy quite so _much_ of the raw chicken is beyond me – ‘ he’s cut off by her mumbled excuse that he doesn’t quite catch. ‘Say again?’ he prompts, very gently stroking her hair in the hope he won’t be doing exactly that early tomorrow morning on the bathroom floor. ‘Didn’t want to be rude’ she mumbles, and she feels him laugh softly, just one gentle exhale of affectionate disbelief. ‘Aye, ye never do. Here lies Nicola Tucker, didn’t want to be rude.’ She laughs too, convinced by his dark humour that she’s unlikely to suffer any serious ill-effects, though she doubts she’s in for a pleasant morning tomorrow. ‘Still – if we manage not to poison anyone, I reckon we’ll be in with a chance to win’ he adds, and she summons the strength to roll her eyes. ‘C’mon, bed. I’m knackered’ she yawns softly, a little more settled now they’re out of the taxi and not being bounced over speed bumps. ‘Promise me you won’t go sniffing round the bins in the night for more snacks?’ he teases as they slip into bed, and she finds the energy from somewhere to press her cold feet against his calves in revenge. Fucking idiot.


End file.
